Strangers on a Plane
by coonskin
Summary: Devon winds up with a most unexpected seatmate during a flight.


A/N: I have made up certain background details, changed a couple of others, and might well have inadvertently changed still others that I didn't remember from the episodes. But this is fanfiction; we have the right to tinker with details. Enjoy!

(KR)

Devon was annoyed, though he tried to keep it from showing through his polished, courteous British front. After all, it was hardly the fault of the airline that the Foundation jet had developed engine problems and he had been forced to switch to a public flight at the last minute. It also was hardly the fault of the airline that this was a few days before a holiday weekend, and consequently the flight was nearly sold out, and there was no room left in first class. He did consider it the airline's fault that their economy seats were quite this packed together. Even allowing for the fact that he was over average height, this seating didn't seem spacious for anyone else around him over the age of 10.

Speaking of children, there was one in the row behind him, kicking the back of his seat now and then, and there were two having a sibling quarrel just across the aisle and one row up. Devon had hoped to study some important documents in his briefcase on the flight, but there was hardly room to open it, and this atmosphere was definitely not conducive to concentration. He steeled himself to endure patiently what he couldn't change and sneaked a look at his watch, counting the time until he would be released from this airborne purgatory, met by a comfortably spacious limousine, and could resume his business.

The woman in the seat next to him caught the time check and gave him a smile. "Are you heading home to visit family?" she asked. She was roughly his age with a pleasant face, and Devon tried to return the smile. She at least was a distraction from his thoughts of appropriately disciplining the children on this flight.

"No, I'm not," he said, but he gave the denial a friendly tone. "I've got a business appointment this afternoon."

"Oh," she said. She waited in social expectation, and Devon politely took his cue.

"Are you going to visit family?" he asked, reversing her question.

She nodded. "My sister in San Diego. I'll have almost a week or so there to spend with her, and one of her two children is going to be able to make it for the weekend. They're both grown now, of course, and even have kids of their own. So I'll get to see my sister's grandkids, three of them, anyway. She has five total. Such a joy, children are."

"Indeed," Devon replied as the imp behind him kicked the seat again. There was a distracted, "Now, Billy, don't do that," before his parent took refuge once more in the in-flight magazine. "Do you have grandchildren of your own?" he said, making what seemed to be the next expected social comment.

Her smile wavered for a moment like a candle in a gust of wind. "No," she said softly. "I only had one child, a son. His father died when he was a young boy, so I never had more, and then my son was killed on the job two years ago. He never married or had kids."

Devon was jolted out of simply passing the time into genuine sympathy. "I'm so sorry," he said, and it was the most sincere comment he had made to her so far.

She looked out the window into the past, and her expression was wistful. Then she turned back to him. "Thank you," she said. "It's been more than two years, but a parent never quite gets over it."

"I'm sure you don't," Devon agreed, thinking of Wilton Knight and his hidden but intense grief over Garthe, the son he had counted as good as dead. He was glad that his old friend hadn't been around for the encounter with Garthe and Goliath; that would have been even more painful for Wilton than it had for Devon. Seized with momentary concern, Devon pushed on in this conversation with this pleasant, matronly stranger. She had a quiet dignity combined with a forthrightness that was starting to appeal to him. "I am sorry to pursue an unpleasant subject, and I totally understand if you don't want to discuss this, but part of my job consists in investigating accidents and such and making sure that full justice is done for those who haven't had it, who have been stalled by the system. You said your son was killed on the job. I do hope that his employer at least accepted their part in that without dodging responsibility."

"Oh, they were wonderful." Devon relaxed, glad to hear it. He was exposed to so much of the bad side of the business world in his Foundation duties. "Everyone on the force was heartbroken as well. It wasn't just Michael; his partner was killed, too. They all were shocked. Even though you know being a police officer isn't safe, it still hits hard when someone dies."

Devon felt his face absolutely freeze. No. It couldn't be.

Why couldn't it? Coincidence was a legitimate force in the universe.

"Excuse me," he said, forcing his voice to stay casual. "I don't believe I caught your name. I'm Devon Miles."

She extended a hand. "Martha Long."

It was.

Devon's mind took off at what, thinking of KITT, he compared to pursuit speed, though he kept his face disciplined. He couldn't let her know, couldn't possibly provide any information during this chance encounter. Michael's list of enemies grew longer by the month. As Devon had told him over a year ago, his life was simply too dangerous at the moment to have family. No, for his mother's protection, she must remain in the dark. Even Michael agreed with that.

No, Devon must be purely social, must only ask and not give. Simply let her talk, something she seemed to want to do anyway. "So your son was a police officer?"

"Yes, he was. He was killed on some special assignment in Reno. I don't know exactly what; he couldn't give me details, of course. I hadn't even seen my boy for a few months before that, although he did call fairly regularly, at least every few weeks." She looked out the plane window into the past again. "You know, I still often call him as my little boy, although he grew up to be six feet four. Part of him still seemed like a boy, though, as big as he was. He still could find fun in life. But he had a way with people. In fact, right before we started talking, I was passing the time by mentally putting him in your seat and imagining his comments on this flight."

Devon couldn't resist that opening. "What would he have been saying?"

"Well, first of all, he'd be even more cramped than you are. Oh, yes, I noticed you trying to shift subtly. Michael never did much subtly, and he wasn't known for patience, either. He would have made a few sharp comments about the lack of room by now, probably even joked with the stewardess about it, wondered what the airline must be spending their money on since they obviously didn't put it into comfort. But he had such a smile. The stewardess would know listening to him that he wasn't blaming her, and in fact, he'd probably have her laughing along with him. He also would have complained long before now about the delay back there when we were 20 minutes late taking off, and he would have either totally scared that boy behind you into not kicking, or if he was in the mood for it, he would have switched seats with his mother and would be that kid's new best friend by now, and the boy would be too engaged to kick seats.

Devon, listening with rapt attention, could easily picture Michael doing all of that.

"Yes, I could imagine him talking to that boy," she continued, dropping her voice discreetly, although Devon wondered if the mother behind him would emerge from her magazine to pay attention to a hijacking or crash landing, much less eavesdropping on the conversation of strangers. "He'd start out joking, pulling him in, but what he really would be fishing for is wondering where that boy's father was since he isn't with them. He'd want to know if he was simply not on this trip, or if they were divorced, or if he was dead. Michael had such sympathy for children who had lost a parent. I think he identified with them." She paused. "I hope I'm not boring you."

"Not at all," Devon replied truthfully. "How old was your son when his father died?" He knew that already, but he couldn't let on that he did.

"He was six." She sighed. "And I'm afraid someone at the funeral said to him at one point that he was going to have to be the man of the family now. They didn't mean it like that, of course; probably just didn't quite know what to say and were trying to simply say something. But I could tell as soon as they said it, he took that to heart. He always had a responsible streak anyway and could feel like things were up to him, even as a child, but after that, I could tell at times as he grew up that _he_ was trying to take care of _me_ instead of the other way around. I tried to talk to him, of course, but he could be so stubborn when he got an idea into his head. You couldn't shift it with dynamite."

Devon nodded in heartfelt agreement, then caught himself and hoped that she thought it was just a "still listening" social gesture.

"But he always did care about other people. Worried about them, even. So yes, he'd fish that boy's story out of him, whatever it was, but he'd make it seem like a game and pull the boy right into it. Only it wouldn't be, not to Michael. He did really care. All through school, he was a protector of the bullied and outcast kids, even though he was quite popular himself. He never took advantage of that status like some of them did to push others down. I even had a girl tell me once, and she wasn't even his girlfriend, that he was the nicest popular boy she knew." She paused, looking at Devon as if to make sure he hadn't zoned out by now.

"He sounds like he was a remarkable child," Devon said. "I'm sure he became a remarkable man."

"Oh, he did." She was looking at her son mentally again, Devon could tell, as if Michael really were in the next seat. "He joined the Army, and as if that wasn't enough, he had to go into the special forces. He never did anything halfway in his life. Everything got full enthusiasm and 150% effort. Then he went over to Vietnam." A shadow swept across her face. "He never really talked about that. Of course, I know that he couldn't reveal a lot of what he was doing, but I could tell it was more than that. He didn't want to, and I never pushed him. Even after he got back, he wouldn't - but first, there actually was a point that I thought he was dead. He was reported as MIA, and it was a few months before I heard anything else. Turns out, he had been captured, and he managed to escape. He told me that much of the story later, but he never said how he got away. I'm - I'm not sure I wanted to know. Of course, I realize he wasn't in the Boy Scouts over there, and I know if he ever actually had to kill somebody - which he probably did - it would be because he had no choice. But that still would have bothered him, even if they were trying to kill him themselves. And he was hurt very badly getting away, and he had surgery. So he was recovering for a while. He was still himself with me; he never lashed out at family like you hear some of those poor people doing after they've come home. When he would have to think about things, he did it alone. But he just didn't want to talk about it." Her mind came back to the present with a thump, and she turned to Devon again. "Are you sure I'm not boring you?"

"No, you aren't," Devon answered, and his absolute sincerity seemed to reach her.

"Good. I feel like I'm just prattling away over here. I don't know why I'm taking on like this. I don't usually with strangers, but you just seem like you're listening somehow. I do appreciate it. It helps me to be able to share how I remember him. It's been long enough now that some of my friends don't want to hear me talk about him as much by this point as they would let me back when he was first killed. They think I should be moving on. And I am, really, but I'll never forget him."

"I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted you to," Devon told her. "Believe me, you aren't being tiresome at all. I'm glad to listen."

"Anyway, he did come home from Vietnam. I remembered that later, when I heard that he was killed on that operation in Reno. I tried to tell myself at first that I'd thought he was dead before, and it turned out to be wrong. Only this time, it was real. And his partner, too, like I said." She blinked a few times. "Michael was such a good policeman. He went into that once he was recovered enough from being hurt after Vietnam. They made him a detective quickly, and he seemed to have a gift for investigating things, but he kept - he lost a couple of partners. I could tell how much that ate at him. He lived long enough to know that poor Muntzy was killed, too. There were witnesses from the parking lot who saw him holding him when he died. And then he took off chasing those people into the desert - and that was the end." She looked out the window again.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Devon said after the silence had lengthened a moment.

She turned back to face him. "Thank you. And thank you for listening to an old woman remember." She opened her purse and pulled out a plastic-sleeved file of pictures. "Here. That was Michael."

Devon took the pictures and flipped through them, fascinated. The first shot was both parents and young Michael who couldn't have been much younger than six. "That was the last picture of all three of us," she confirmed. Devon studied the shot. Michael's father had been tall, nearly as tall as Michael himself achieved. Michael looked young and carefree.

He turned to a shot from high school, Michael playing basketball. The body was very familiar to Devon by the time of this shot, even if not quite grown into his eventual frame, but the face was different. The eyes, though, were the same, intent, focused, pouring all of his energy into making that shot just as Devon had seen him do on a case many times. He turned to the third and final one. This was Michael in adulthood, a posed shot, and the former face was jarring. The eyes, again, were still Michael. Devon handed the picture file back to her. "He was a very handsome young man."

"Yes, he was. I know I'm biased, but he really was." She smiled again. "You know, this is going to sound crazy, but sometimes I pretend to myself that he's not even dead. I think of him just out there somewhere else, doing something else, in another life. I imagine him having friends and being happy. And helping people; he always would be helping people. But I think of his - his spirit, the man he was, still being out there alive somewhere. Does that sound too crazy?"

"Not at all," Devon replied. "I'm sure he would have wanted you to keep him alive mentally. And you know, I read somewhere that as long as someone is remembered, they aren't truly dead."

She nodded. "That's true. And sometimes, I'll see somebody from the back, just for a second, who is that tall, and I'm almost expecting him to turn around. And it's never him, of course. Or I'll see a car like he had, a black sports car. It's amazing the number of them you see around. It's never his, always some other driver, but it's fun to remember, like I said. Just to pretend for a moment he's driving around somewhere."

She twisted in the seat to face Devon fully. "Now this _is_ going to sound crazy, but there actually was once that I felt like his spirit was watching me. I had taken a vacation to Las Vegas about a year ago. A friend talked me into going along with her. I was just puttering around the casino and feeling out of place. Losing money right and left. Then all at once, it was like somebody flipped a switch, and the slot machine I was at hit twelve jackpots in a row. Twelve! All in a row, right together. Can you believe it? I won thousands and thousands that day. The staff actually came over to shut the machine down at the end and check on it. That was the machine next to the window, and in the middle of that winning streak, I happened to look out, and there was a black car out there. It had tinted windows, but I don't think anybody was in it. It was just parked. But I told myself at the time that the spirit of Michael was there and was sending me luck." She laughed at herself. "You _will_ think I'm crazy now."

"No, I don't," Devon assured her. "In fact, maybe you were right. Maybe the spirit of Michael actually was sending you luck. I fully believe that could happen." He wondered how much Michael and KITT had cost the casino that day, but he couldn't blame his young friend. What an opportunity, even if from behind darkened windows. Of course Michael hadn't been able to resist.

The fasten seatbelts sign came on, and the chime sounded. Devon looked at his watch again, startled at how time had passed.

"My goodness," said his seatmate. "We're already almost here. Well, Devon Miles, thank you for humoring an old woman and letting her reminisce on this flight."

"It was my pleasure," he said. He grasped her hand and shook it again. "I have never had any biological children of my own, but if I ever had had a son, I would hope that he could be just like your Michael."

(KR)

Down at VIP parking, the limo driver waited with trepidation. He was a long-time Foundation employee and had driven Devon before many times, and he was dreading the mood that his boss was going to be in after being forced to take a commercial flight, especially back in the economy seats.

To his surprise, Devon came out calmly, greeted him, and got into the limo with no trace of impatience or irritation. As the driver pulled away, he looked in the rearview mirror, expecting Devon to have already opened his briefcase.

He was wrong. The briefcase lay completely ignored on the seat, and Devon was looking out the window, a genuine smile on his lips. He looked like he had just had not only a pleasant afternoon but an exceptional one. On an airplane, in economy.

The driver shook his head, wondering if he would ever completely understand his boss.


End file.
